


Little Golden Threads

by the_irydioner



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Book-inspired, F/M, Missing Moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irydioner/pseuds/the_irydioner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As Richard reached out to secure the covers around her better, he was suddenly startled in noticing just then the very familiar pattern made of little golden threads on the old, faded light-yellow base of the blanket that had come under his fingers.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>His very own, favourite blanket.</i>
</p><p>Sparse moments in the lives of Anne and Richard, with a blanket involved.<br/>(inspired, again, by a scene in "The Sunne in Splendour")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. 1464

**Author's Note:**

> On the last fic I wrote more than one person said they would like seeing more Sunne-inspired scenes...so there you have it :)  
> The scene I'm referencing this time is a very early one in the book, where Duchess Cecily has just sent away her two youngest sons to Burgundy, in fear for their life after Wakefield, and she finds a scared and confused little Anne and comforts her about the well-being of her father and her cousins. Anne ends up falling asleep in Dickon's blanket, and Cecily tells her she can keep it until Richard comes home...in my headcanon, you'll see that she keeps it a little longer than that :3  
> I just found this scene (among many!) really lovely, and it has made me think of more than one canon-compliant situation where the blanket could make an appearance...so this is probably going to be a series of one-shots with this common theme (as soon as my exam preparation allows me to write :S). Hope you like the idea!
> 
> {I also wanted to add a giant THANK YOU to all of you who write up here. I am normally more of a vidder than a writer, and it makes me very sad that on YT (where I usually spend most of my fandom time) no one seems to vid TWQ anymore! Your stories, on the other hand, have been keeping me incredibly good company for all these months, and I'm enjoying reading them immensely. So thanks to all of you for keeping the fandom alive!}

 

 

Middleham’s hall was already packed with people, and dinner being long served in the chiseled plates adorning the tables, when Richard scurried into the room with ever-faithful Francis at his side, both boys quite breathless from their hurrying in the corridors. Their weaponry and horse-riding practice that afternoon had left them completely starving; and yet Richard Neville’s severe gaze fixing itself on them immediately, as soon as they entered the room, would’ve made anyone’s appetite vanquish instantly.

Seated at Warwick’s right side as the highest-ranked noble guest at his table, George shot the unfortunate younger boys one of his trademark mischievous smirks.

Richard could guess what he would’ve liked to say in that annoying taunting tone of his: _oooh, my serious little brother is in trouble. Let’s see how you get out of this, Dickon!_

Francis swallowed nervously at having all the attention from the high table on the two of them, and glanced sideways to his young lord and friend. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, attempting a strained grin. “I’m sure the Earl can’t really punish you too harshly at least, with you outranking him and all that…right?” he added hesitantly.

“Well, that is really _very_ reassuring, Francis” Richard sarcastically huffed back. That wasn’t true and he knew it; as much as he was a little duke, Richard Neville, the “Kingmaker”, was still his guardian. His status, instead, often meant he was the first to be blamed if something happened among the Earl of Warwick’s numerous wards: that was to teach him that, when he took men into battle, no one would be responsible for their actions but him, and he must be ready to accept the burdens of command as well as the privileges it brought.

To be honest, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and headed closer to the high table, dragging Francis with him; and both boys offered their most apologetic bow to Warwick and Countess Anne.

The Kingmaker’s lips twitched in amusement. “Ah, there you are. My lost wards. Very thoughtful of you to grace us with your company.”

Richard tried to control the red of embarrassment that was threatening to creep up his face. “We are very sorry, dear cousin; but Francis is not at fault, I am.” He saw his friend trying to protest in the corner of his eye, but silenced him with a determined glance. “I insisted that we lingered on with the horses out in the moors, and made us late.”

He held Warwick’s scrutinizing gaze, trying to ignore his brother’s unimpressed expression. “We would have come straight away, but we didn’t want to offend your table with our state, or the ladies...”

As he mentioned them, he gave a polite nod first to the always stony Countess, then to Isabel, who was seated next to her mother and seemed particularly glowing that evening, in her newest dress and elaborately-braided hair – was it only casual she was looking her best when his brother was around?

However, as his lips spontaneously quirked in a tiny reassuring smile for his most adoring little cousin he was about to turn to next, he had to stop dead in his tracks, suddenly realizing she wasn’t sitting by her sister as she should, nor was she anywhere to be seen.

Where could Anne be?

“My daughter has fallen ill today.”

Of course his silent flash of astonishment wouldn’t escape Warwick’s sharp eye, as much as the consequent flicker of worry which followed his answer, and which was exactly the reaction the earl was expecting – and hoping for. Every other boy would be annoyed to have a small eight-year-old trailing their tail in admiration every time she could; but Dickon showed to take part of Anne’s games and to cherish her companionship equally as his other male friends’ – if a little more quietly, since it wasn’t equally _proper_ – and the thought of their closeness pleased the Kingmaker greatly.

“Oh, but dear cousin, don’t make my little brother fret so. I understand ‘tis nothing more than a passing fever,” George chimed in, his tone clearly born more out of mocking his brother than of concern for the little girl’s health, “is it not, Isabel?”

The older girl shot him a surprised glance, secretly flattered at his chivalry to bring her into the conversation – as the betraying, if light, blush suffusing her cheeks was attesting. Seriously, it seemed George had her wrapped around his little finger, and Richard couldn’t see for the love of God what she admired so much in that exasperating attitude of his.

“Well, yes. One she wouldn’t have caught if she had not been climbing trees like a little monkey…such unladylike behaviour,” Isabel scoffed, her eyes still meaningfully directed to George, as if to make him notice in contrast how very beautiful and well-mannered she was; to which Richard rolled his eyes.

 _At least she’s not boring like you are,_ he thought. The times when the four of them had been playing all together, before George and Isabel decided it was suddenly improper for them to be seen engaging in such _childish_ activities, seemed so far away, and he found himself missing them at times.

“Well, since my niece seems to have been up to some mischief of her own, I guess we ought to be a little more indulgent this time to these two young men standing here, don’t you think, brother?”

John Neville, who was also a guest at his brother’s table, lightly winked at the two boys; Dickon gratefully smiled back at him, both for speaking in their defense and preventing more ill-talking of Anne, while Warwick smiled condescendingly.

“You are right, Johnny; I’m in no position to rebuke them now, and besides, they will have learnt their lesson, since they will find very little to eat by now. You may seat,” he concluded, indicating to the two of them their respective places. As Francis bowed respectfully and headed to the other wards’ table, he mouthed an imperceptible “good luck” in Richard’s ear, and the boy wondered for a moment what he’d meant; but as soon as he realized he was going to be seated next to George, and likely be the target of all his antics for the night, he thought that was punishment enough.

Dinner was indeed an interminable affair to him; but it was actually his worried thoughts for Anne that partially saved him, since George soon grew tired of teasing a brother that was only half-listening. As soon as he finally gave up on him, and asked Isabel for a walk in the moonlit gardens – which forced a way deeper blush out of her – Dickon seized the opportunity to bid the room goodnight and retire himself, exaggerating his drowsiness from the day; his mind, though, was on a very different destination from his room, and as he exited the hall making haste apologies again for his former belatedness, he missed the knowing look that passed between Warwick and Countess Anne.

It seemed that, as far as both their daughters were concerned, they would be in no need to play matchmaker.

 

 

Anne’s chamber was half-hidden in darkness, with only a few candles still left lit in the corners to keep some light on until the young lady fell asleep. And asleep indeed the girl looked, at least until the heavy wooden door gave a betraying creak that made Richard wince internally.

“Izzy?” whispered the little girl in a drowsy voice.

“No…Dickon.”

“Richard!” Anne chirped happily, immediately pushing herself up from her covers, suddenly a lot more awake. Richard smiled at the use of his full name she appeared so determined in making, since – as she had seriously informed him with an adorable frown on her petite face – everyone else already called him Dickon, but she liked to “have her own names for the people that mattered the most” to her (she had blushed furiously – and adorably still – right after completing that sentence).

“You should stay under those,” he said, motioning towards the furs that were now crumpled at her waist in her attempt to sit up. “Don’t want your father to get angry at me again for making you catch more cold.”

He wouldn’t admit that, actually, he didn’t want to see her becoming sicker because he himself didn’t like one bit to see her all flushed and shivering lightly with fever like she was now.

“But it’s so boring being here with nothing to do!” Anne protested, but actually did as he suggested and lay back with a huff.

Her brows suddenly knitted together. “Why “again”?”

The boy ducked his head in embarrassment. “Er…Francis and I arrived very late at dinner. Your father was not pleased…and George just couldn’t shut up about it afterwards. You know, usual George behaviour.”

Anne indeed knew what he was on about and giggled softly, which soon turned into a light cough. “But you escaped,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone that made Richard laugh as well.

“Actually, he seemed to be quite happy, for once, to be taken away by your sister,” he chuckled.

The girl frowned a little at the mention of Isabel. “I don’t know why she likes him. I don’t like him very much…he is _mean_ ,” she pouted. “And Izzy never wants to play with me when he’s around...”

A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and at once a pair of wide blue eyes was fixed on him in a worried expression. “You’re not going to become mean like them, right, Richard?”

“Never!” Richard’s boyish face was suddenly, too, deadly serious. “I would never be like that to you, Anne.”

“Promise?” A spark of hope fluttered in her voice.

“Promise.”

Anne looked relieved and smiled at him gratefully from under the bed linens, before her fever sent her in new, more violent shuddering, even though little droplets of sweat were sticking to her forehead; and, as Richard reached out to secure the covers around her better, he was suddenly startled in noticing just then the very familiar pattern made of little golden threads on the old, faded light-yellow base of the blanket that had come under his fingers.

His very own, favourite blanket.

He had thought it had been lost in the messy haste that had been that freezing night when his mother had sent a frightened George and himself on a little ship headed to Burgundy. It had been the only thing he had been irrationally over-attached to, as kids often do with some particular possession of theirs whose importance only they understand, in all his childhood; but that had been the very night he had left his early, carefree years behind for good, and their vestiges with it. Somehow, the thought of Anne keeping and treasuring that small, unimportant piece of fabric for him for all this time made him feel a tingling, pleasant warmth inside.

The blanket, however, seemed to do very little to repay Anne’s care now: he could still see her small, half-covered form trembling from head to toe. In a rush of impulsive decisiveness, he swung the gold-embroidered cloth away and climbed onto the bed, snuggling himself close to her and throwing the fabric back upon them both.

Anne gave a startled squeak, her cheeks reddening with a whole different reason than being feverish. “Richard…what are you doing?...don’t want you…to get ill…” she protested, interrupted by her shuddering breathing.

“Keeping you warm,” Dickon said, matter-of-factly. “George did it for me when we were escaping from the Bad Queen on that ship. George hates snuggling…but he wasn’t _mean George_ yet.”

The boy smiled at the memory. “I thought he was the bravest brother I could have then. Well…the second bravest. No one can be braver than Edward.”

 _Brazenly brave,_ Anne thought, remembering what she’d heard her father say about the young King; but she refrained to say so, in front of Richard’s well-known, unabashed admiration for his big, resplendent brother.

“Will you tell me about that night, Richard?” she asked instead, her eyes staring at him expectantly. “Please?”

Richard didn’t really like to talk about the constant fear and uncertainty those days had been; for while they seemed to have happened a lifetime ago, they still brought with them the aching pain of losing his father and Edmund, and that appeared not to be going to heal any time soon. However, lying together like that under his – to be fair, he was going to have to call it _theirs_ now; and it actually felt strangely nice to know he was sharing something with her – old blanket, her big eyes watching him in anticipation from so close that he could have counted her eyelashes if he wanted, he found that he couldn’t have possibly denied his little cousin anything.

As he recalled his memories from that cold night on sea and weaved them into a bedtime tale for her, he was mildly aware of the growing drowsiness from the day enveloping them both, and making his words slur. The last thing he remembered noticing, before his eyes became too heavy with sleep, were the tremors coming from Anne’s tiny frame, squished tightly against him, finally subsiding, and her steady, sleeping breaths puffing lightly on his cheek.

His last conscious thought was that, much contrary to his brother dearest, he definitely liked snuggling.


	2. ii. 1470

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne is getting married.

  

The excited, if whispered, chatter of the maids fills the large chamber, echoing among the dark red tapestries and awnings and bed linens decorating it all – seemingly wanting to remind everyone, with the most immediate evidence, that this is the heart of the exiled Lancaster court.

Some of them are still applying the last golden stitches to the hem of the new, beautiful sun-yellow gown the bride is to wear in the morning; other two are emptying the last two buckets of hot water in the wooden bathtub they’ve carried to the centre of the room; while one last girl cautiously approaches the person who should be most expectant and joyous of them all, and yet has been sitting on the scarlet bed staring into space for hours.

 _“Princesse_ _Anne,”_ she calls out softly in her perfectly-accented French. When she doesn’t obtain any reaction, she shoots a disbelieving look at her fellows behind, eyebrow arched in perplexity, and she brazenly reaches out for her wrist while saying her name more forcefully.

“ _Princesse_ _Anne!_ ”

Anne finally snaps out of her reverie and looks up at her; but her big blue eyes are still void, and make her look like a frightened child all the more.

“ _Votre bain est prêt_ _.”_

She lets the girl lead her to the bathtub docilely, and she still says nothing while the maidens undress her and carefully scrub her clean. She is like a doll in their hands and, truthfully, she _feels_ like a doll: a pretty object to play dress-up with, to be offered as a present to the next spoilt royalty for their amusement.

It doesn’t help that these girls judging from her blank attitude probably think her stupid, or very ignorant in French at least; they think she can’t understand the meaning of their impudent little giggles behind her back, how they’re murmuring about how nothing really special she is, how plain a soon-to-be-princess she will make. For a moment, she’s back in the cathedral that will see her wed tomorrow, under the Lancaster Queen’s razor-sharp eye analyzing her with no mercy, even exposing her teeth like she’s to buy a new stallion for her royal stables. The memory wants to force a shiver down her spine, even if the water surrounding her in the tub is blissfully warm; but Anne stubbornly fights it back, desperately clinging to the mask of apathy she’s constructed for herself.

What is it Izzy would say? _I would be a Queen of dignity and no emotion._

In truth, what her gossipy French maids are saying is no big news to her. It is Isabel who’s always been the beautiful, graceful sister; Isabel who was meant to be Queen; Isabel the one their father had chosen to bet all their fortunes upon. However, like everything else in her life recently, it seemed this certainty, too, had to be turned upside down, and now it is up to her, little dull always-overshadowed Anne, to secure her family’s future, to walk down the aisle and give herself to the next pretender her father wants to raise to England’s throne, proving himself to the world as the Kingmaker once more.

She will marry Edward of Lancaster tomorrow, in the same, grand cathedral of Angers that, as she had watched the Bad Queen – _Queen Margaret_ , she corrects herself – keeping her father kneeling there for hours, had seemed so intimidating, so _empty_ and _cold_ – so much similar to her heart in this very moment…

Is it not rather fitting after all, she thinks, that the Prince of Ice should be married to a frozen bride?

She could make a truly pretty addiction now, she muses with a bitter smile, to the bedtime stories Isabel was so fond of telling her, her puppets creating big, frightening shadows on the candle-lit walls of their room at Middleham.

She follows, still absent-minded, as they pull her standing from the bath water, and it is as if the cold is besieging her from all directions now, goosebumps erupting violently at the shock of December chill on her wet skin; but she actually welcomes the physical sensation as it makes her _feel_ , so unlike the frost that creeps up from inside much more deviously, and makes her fear she’ll never laugh again in this judging, unwelcoming court in exile.

_I don’t want to be his Queen. I want to go home._

If she’d been the same, naïve little girl she was a couple of years before, she could still have believed her father was doing all this for her sake, to raise her to greatness because he wanted only the best for his darling daughter, as her mother was so fond of repeating to her these days, calling her _most ungrateful child_ in that usual oh-so-loving tone of hers; as she had believed with all her childish heart when it was Isabel he had been trying to gift with a crown. But now, oh how well did she understand her sister’s reluctance, and how right she had been in deeming it was “all for them”, their men who used them as mere steps on the ladder of their own overreaching ambition.

She has always been heart and soul for her father, always felt secure in his firm arms when he used to pick her up as a little girl, always trusted him and the rare smiles crossing his hard face with the blindest admiration; but now all she can’t help herself from thinking is that, if it weren’t for his endless scheming, she could be at home with the sister she missed so much, her small niece bouncing happily on her knees instead of sinking lifeless into the unmerciful sea…and if she were still to marry tomorrow, it could be another waiting for her at the altar, as it originally should’ve been, observing her nervously from under the thick mass of dark curls she has always loved.

_Richard._

Thinking of him and hurting is one and the same, but he is plaguing her mind these days, random flashes of memory from when they were still innocent and clueless of what was to come, sparks of warmth she cannot find here.

His determined stance when she spied him training, his laughter at a joke shared, his furrowed brow when playing chess.

His hands, feather-like on her waist as he had made her dance at Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, realising she’d felt left out in seeing Izzy courted and waltzing from an admirer to another (but always trading glances with George throughout).

Most of all she remembers his eyes, their grey always reminding her of passing clouds, changing shape and shade in the wind and sometimes parting, letting a ray of sun in whenever he smiled, or his gaze twinkled with irony.

Edward, too, has grey eyes; but all they remind her of is harsh, unforgiving steel.

She still shivers at the memory of the look of absolute contempt on his face when he’d first seen her; and now that the maidens are done with her for the night and have finally left her to her thoughts – so engrossed she must have been that she’s only noticed now – being alone, surrounded by the redness of everything in the room, does nothing but remind her that at this time tomorrow she’ll be wife to such a man ( _boy_ ), that she will be feeling that same disdainful glare on her for the rest of her life…

...and she is _afraid_. She is a Neville, so she won’t let it show, as her father would want; but she is sure that if she keeps seeing only more red she’ll go mad. In sudden movement, she throws the chest with her clothes open, and after a bit of searching relief floods her when the familiar cloth-of-gold comes into view, feeling worn between her fingers, and she clutches on it for dear life.

Its golden patterns have seen years passing and are nowhere as vibrant as those on her wedding dress; but, God, she only feels all the more grateful for the difference. The blanket, _their_ blanket, which had become a private thing between them – _“It will serve you far better here in the North than me at my brother’s court; you should be the one to keep it,” Richard had smiled, fingers gently brushing hers when she’d tried to give it back to him before he left Middleham_ – smells like home, and innocence lost, and everything this place is not.

Anne drapes the familiar fabric on her shoulders, and for a moment she can imagine her Richard’s arms closing protectively around her, shielding her from everyone and everything like a knight from the courtly tales they used to read together as children. The rational part in her wants to scoff at her own foolishness, she doesn’t even know if he remembers her at all, has time to think of any other things than the war her father is forcing on his family; but another part likes to think that he does, that he does think of her as she is of him, wondering how she feels on the other side of the lines, if she sees him like an enemy now.

She hopes he knows she could never.

When the same, unfamiliar maids come back in the morning and find her staring out from the window, still wrapped up in her strange cover, their faces are a perfect echo of the incredulity they displayed the evening before; but Anne just looks back at them, forcing a smile on her lips.

 _“Je crois que j’aurais besoin d’assistance avec ma nouvelle robe?”_ she asks nonchalantly, in the best French she can manage after stopping practicing with her teacher for so long.

The girls’ faces suddenly going pale and their chatter dying down visibly while they dress her are her small revenge for their former impudence; but Anne feels little reward from it, as she folds Richard’s blanket and hides it back under her dresses, and her heart with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who spots the GoT reference? :)
> 
> (I actually had a pretty strong Daenerys moment while typing this, because I realized after adding that quote that the bath scene altogether might as well be a reference to her ^^)
> 
> I took a bit long with this part because of exams (I have just discovered I won't probably have summer holidays this year o.o), and also because I would've actually wanted to write the next one after seeing eps. 5 and 6 again on Italian tv - though I did have some massive laughs at our dubbing, some translations are just so stupid and don't even make sense! And guess who usually gets the worst of them, and also the ugliest voice? Of course, it had to be Richard...  
> Needless to say that evening when I switched off the tv I had an enormous need to rewatch them a second time in English.
> 
> Also I'm sorry about the lack of Richard in this one, but it was kind of unavoidable...and he will be in the next. I also hope it's not too heavy to read! Comments are appreciated always :)


	3. iii. 1471

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis witnesses Richard and Anne's reunion at Tewkesbury.

 

This whole day will always be a blur to Francis in years to come, he suspects.

Everything had seemed to be happening at impossible, whirling speed, at that _speed of the devil_ the Lancastrians always spoke of when Edward of York was involved; and that was indeed the only eligible way to describe what their forced, restless march on Tewkesbury had been.

A few days ago, they were all cursing Margaret of Anjou for slipping away further and further from their reach, more dangerous each day she got closer to Wales; a little more than few hours ago, they’ve been so close to lose it all, under Somerset’s surprise attack on Richard’s vanguard.

Now, all that remains of those threats are crumpled bodies seeping the earth with sticky fluids, and it feels almost unreal that everything should be over, just like that.

Francis has survived unscathed the bloodiest battle he can ever remember, and he wonders briefly how it is possible for the infamous Towton to have been even gorier than this. The bloody smell of victory still intoxicates the York soldiers like the strongest, most fragrant wine, sends them off in all directions filled with a greed for retribution that won’t spare anything or anyone in their path. It is this uncontrolled thirst for revenge that he and Richard are galloping side by side to stop, because it is one thing – arguable and cruel and dislikeable to him as it might, but he can bring himself to see the necessity in it – to refuse the right to sanctuary and execute traitorous leaders, but it is quite another to assault an abbey at full arms and harass harmless nuns as the troops now appear to be set on doing.

“Damned fools,” he hears his lord and friend mutter through gritted teeth.

If he had thought to be done with the twists and turns of fate for the day, though, he has been sorely mistaken, for as soon as they sprint into the courtyard of the abbey in pursuit of the disobedient soldiers, the sound of an oddly familiar shriek above the general chaos startles them both.

_No! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!_

It’s coming from right in front of them, that voice that seems to belong to a distant dream, right from the corner where a tangled mess of sweaty, armoured men is mercilessly dragging a petite, struggling figure down from their horse. All Francis can see before they disappear, overwhelmed, on the ground is a glimpse of long, braided dark-blond hair – _a woman!_ – and an instinctive apprehension grips him even before he hears her scream new angry, desperate words.

_I am Anne Neville! I am the Kingmaker’s daughter! No!_

It is as if he can _feel_ his blood freezing into his veins as recognition finally dawns upon him. For a shocked moment, he is startled into horrified stillness; beside him, he sees all colour drain from Richard’s face at once, his eyes growing as wide and disconcerted as his own, if not more. For all he knows his friend had wished – but never dared himself to hope – to somehow be able to see Anne again, he also knows this was never the way he had intended for it to happen.

But Richard has always been so much better at keeping his feelings at bay than he, always been crucially quick in decision-making; in a blink of an eye he has put himself together and is dismounting his horse in one swift motion, a slight tremor in his voice the only betraying signal of the turmoil coiling inside of him.

“Francis, go round the perimeter with your men and make this madness stop,” he growls, voice deadly low.

“But, Richard…”

He is already closing in long strides on the group of abusing men, anger radiating off him like burning heat from a dangerous fire; and Francis knows better than to argue. Before turning his mount around to do as he is bid, an armoured figure is sent flying into air in the corner of his eye with such sheer violence, that he almost feels sorry for those unfortunate souls who will have to bear the brunt of his lord’s rage.

 

When he comes back to report to him, the first thing he notices is the icy, hateful glare on Richard’s face, such as he has never seen before, as he slowly sheaths his drawn sword back; but as soon as he realizes whom it is directed to, he really shouldn’t be this surprised.

He almost can’t believe that this small, red-caped woman with obstinately straight bearing but completely broken face has been the worst nightmare of the House of York, has been the proud Queen his father used to praise and tell him stories about back at Minster Lovell so many years ago, has been the _she-wolf_ that had the heads of Richard’s father and brother impaled and mocked at on the gates of York.

Now, Margaret of Anjou has lost everything, and her total, utter defeat shows in her dark eyes as she lets herself be dragged away from the even smaller figure standing next to Richard on the verge of breakdown. Anne looks honestly terrible, her pretty hair dishevelled, dress crumpled and muddy at the hem, deep lines of distress and exhaustion edged all over her petite face and clear blue eyes fighting against tears of fright; but she appears to be all right, and Francis mentally thanks all the saints in Paradise for not allowing them to be too late, for not adding yet another scar to those she must already have collected in this past year, and that now show on her face in full force.

They’re not alone on there, though; and as he watches her fighting a raging battle against herself to regain a semblance of composure, her chest rising and falling as she swallows several shaky breaths, it is in a somehow fascinated way that he detects a new, foreign fierceness in her, one that has nothing to do with the childish stubbornness he remembers well in the little lady he had known. The carefree girl from his memories is something else entirely from this guarded young woman who now raises determined eyes again to Richard.

“Your Grace.”

 Francis sees his friend’s eyes grow wide in a moment of disconcert at being addressed so formally by her, by Anne of all people, whom he has known –has _cared for_ – for practically forever. It is as if the twists and turns of this past year have erased any trace of the ease once so natural between them, left them like complete strangers, still disbelieving of having been thrust together again by the turning tide, not knowing anymore what to expect from each other; and if he is finding difficult to reconcile his recollection of her with this new Anne, he can only imagine what painful uncertainty must be racking Richard’s mind.

“There is something…I would like to retrieve from the abbey before we go,” she says in questioning tone, trying to keep her voice steady. There’s a small undertone of urgency in her voice that makes Francis wonder even more at this puzzle she’s become.

“Of course, _lady Anne_.” As stiff and confused as Richard’s consent is, it comes to him without even blinking, a fleeting echo of old times, when everyone knew he would’ve granted his little loving cousin anything. Anne flashes him a small, grateful smile, a soft “Thank you” escaping her lips; for an illusory moment it is as if they’re all back to easier days, but then she’s picking up her ruined skirt and disappearing into the sacred walls, and it is gone too soon.

Francis can feel the tension and worry radiating off Richard in big, turbulent waves, but has no idea how to comfort him, can only stare as miserably as him at her retreating form.

She re-emerges moments later, a strange, hastily folded mass of coloured fabric in her arms – and a whole new dose of astonishment grips them both when they see her starting determinedly after the two White-Rose-embellished guards dragging Margaret of Anjou away.

 “Queen Margaret.”

Francis sucks in an uneasy breath. An empty title is all the wretched woman has left, the only thing likely to get a residual spark of her attention; but now, after this final victory, it’s undisputable treason to give it to anyone other than their White Queen Elizabeth.

The two soldiers stop dead in their tracks and allow the defeated Queen to turn around, not daring to deny Anne’s request after their lord’s earlier, impressive display of protectiveness towards this very same lady; but Francis sees they share his discomfort, keep throwing small anxious glances in their Duke’s direction.

Richard does nothing. He is still in a daze as he watches Anne take more slow, measured steps until she’s face to face again with their childhood nightmare – _Christ, her mother-in-law now_ – and wordlessly outstretches an arm, offering her the garment she’s been holding to her chest. As it unfolds in the blood-saturated air, Francis can finally see it for what it is: a rich red ceremonial cape, a light blotch of an unfinished stitching motive standing out on it. This must be what the women have occupied themselves with in the waiting hours in the abbey, how they’ve tried to ward off cruel thoughts…

As he looks more closely, he recognizes it. It’s still missing the lower half of its white, feathery body, but the long, curved neck glaring at them on the cape is unmistakably that of a swan, late Edward of Lancaster’s personal badge. He risks a glance at Richard, and for a moment he looks as if he is about to be sick, a thousand questions Francis can all too well read clouding his light eyes all of a sudden. Is that her way to offer sympathy to the Bad Queen’s plight? Can she have come to… _feel_ for her husband after all? Can she be mourning Lancaster? Has he lost her?

For a betraying moment, there’s a stab of unbearable pain flashing in Margaret of Anjou’s now hollow eyes as she gapes at her beloved son’s emblem, this insignificant piece of fabric all she has left of him. It is no more than a second, though, and then her gaze fills with emptiness again as she stares Anne down. Anne bravely holds her scrutiny, still as a statue; and Francis can see something pass between the two women, a quivering flash of mutual understanding at the end of things. He watches as the fallen Queen finally accepts the offering, and takes the garment into her own arms, holding it close as she would’ve her son when he was but a tiny baby – not yet the ruthless, cruel boy she had raised him to be.

“Go with God, Anne Neville,” she says. It is the only time he’ll ever hear her speak, and it is with a broken voice so different to the imperious commanding tone he has always associated with her, that even he, a Yorkist at heart by now, can feel a faint flicker of pity coursing through his veins.

It is not pity though, he thinks, that reflects in Anne, as the soldiers yank the Anjou woman away from her for the last time; her shoulders slumping free of tension, her eyes closing as she takes a deep breath speak of relief, of one last duty finally performed, before letting that dangerous title of Princess of Wales ebb away from her like the wind blowing into Margaret’s retreating cloak.

Then he sees it. Hidden under the red cape before, there’s still something in her hands, something she grips as tightly to herself as the Bad Queen had done – it looks like a blanket, and a worn one at that. Francis dismisses it, thinks she must have grasped it in the abbey for the journey to London, that it is more than normal in her still shocked state to feel cold; but he is startled when he chooses that moment to look at Richard again, and finds his eyes filling with stunned recognition.

He watches him finally snap out the astonished immobility that had seemed to take hold of him until now, take slow, cautious steps towards her.

Anne senses him getting closer, and she turns to him, her eyes wide as he lifts one gauntleted hand, gently takes a hem of the fading golden fabric between his fingers.

“You…you still keep this.”

His voice is heavy with emotion, and Francis can almost hear the real, tentative question he means with that. _You…still care about me?_

Anne looks up at him with soft, almost teary eyes. The trembling smile she gives Richard is like a warm ray of sun in that day of woe; the emotion between them so thick all of a sudden that it makes Francis feel like he’s intruding in the most private of moments.

“I always have,” she whispers, almost too low for him to hear. “I always will.”

And Francis is sure that she, too, isn’t talking about the blanket anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Damn. Chapter. I am none too sure about it, but it always happens when I take too long to write something...and still being in the midst of exams I found myself with zero time in this period. Sorry about it!  
> I really wanted to write something in Francis' POV; his absence is one of the things that bugs me most about PG's adaptation (I love him a great deal ^_^) so I reinstated him in the Tewkesbury scene of the series basically. Richard sounds to me like a very reserved man, keeping his feelings from showing to the most if he could; and so, to be his best friend, Francis strikes me as a good reader of people.  
> Also, I kind of respect Margaret of Anjou, so I have her in here quite a bit :)
> 
> Next drabble should have a time-jump - can't have our blanket pop up in every single moment of our beloveds' lives, can I? I think the next one might have been better themed for St Valentine but you get this instead ^^ happy Lover's Day to everyone and happy name-day to me! xD


	4. iv. 1479

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Ned's waiting for Richard at Middleham is perhaps shorter than they expected.

_“My lord Edward! My lord Edward!”_

The cries of the nursemaid were echoing all down the corridor by now, more insistent by the minute, and definitely overshadowing the soft lute music coming from the solar where Anne was sitting in circle with her ladies. Whenever Richard was away – which was more often than not these days, whether to sedate rising restlessness on the Scottish borders, or because he had to go administering justice here and there, or his brother the King summoned him – it was there that his Duchess liked to spend her evenings the most, having her favourite ballads read aloud, or just sitting there quietly sewing and listening to her youngest lady Mary’s skill with the chords, like tonight; all in all trying to pretend that she didn’t miss her husband like a thirsty wanderer craving water in the middle of a desert.

“Do you want me to go and see what’s going on, Your Grace?” asked Mary now, stopping playing and resting the lute on her knees while her eyes wonderingly flickered to the closed door.

Anne felt a stab of concern pricking her heart, as it always happened when something was wrong with her Ned, always so small, so frail. She tried, God knew how much, not to smother him with overprotectiveness, wanting him to do all the things a little lord of his station would be expected to; but she couldn’t help herself but fear a little everytime there seemed to be something out of place with him, her precious only son. What if he had fallen? Or taken ill again? She knew it; she shouldn’t have let him indulge in horse-riding practice so much in the morning chill…

“Thank you, Mary; but I think I’ll go check myself,” she said in her calmest intonation possible, while managing a grateful smile to the lass seated on the rich crimson carpet covering the floor of the solar. In a rush of flowing dark blue skirts, she was in the corridor, and only by pure luck she avoided collision with the very flustered, slightly plump woman of the household who had been filling it with her shouts, and whose embarrassment only flared higher in coming face to face with her.

“My Lady! My Lady, I’m so sorry!”

“Calm down,” she gently steadied the anxious maid. “What’s going on?”

“It…it be the little lord, my Lady. I know it be past his bedtime already, but we can’t find him anywhere…”

She was startled when she saw the Duchess burst into relieved laughter, which was the very last reaction she was expecting. “My Lady?”

“Be that all that’s wrong?”

“Yes, my Lady. I really don’t know where else to look…”

“Then I’m taking it on myself from here,” Anne interrupted her with a reassuring smile, thankful beside herself that none of her worst expectations had turned out true.

…Even though, if Ned was hiding where she thought he was, a cold was probably the least that was sure to follow.

_My little rascal._

The thought made her smile widen despite herself. “I think I might have a good idea where he could be.”

 

She was proven right as soon as she finished climbing the last few steps leading to the top of the southern tower: there he was, her son, leaning over the battlements, his mop of black hair ruffling into the wind, bravely facing the cold and staring intently at the horizon. He was small and lean, her Ned, almost too much, and save for the lack of curls in his hair he was such a splitting image of his father at the same age that Anne felt nostalgia acutely tugging at her heart, and was almost reluctant to break the moment.

“Hey, little man, what are you exactly doing here at this hour?” As a six-year-old earl, Ned already had his peculiar, childish pride; only Richard could call him _my boy_ and get away with it without earning himself an all-day pout.

The little boy looked startled as he turned to his mother, and then flashed her the sheepish smile of one caught doing the very same reproachful thing once again.

Anne sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Ned, you know how it goes when you catch too much cold,” she gently scolded. “You just came out of a fever last week…”

“But I’m not cold, Mama!” the child protested. “And I was looking out for Papa.”

Of course he was, Anne chuckled to herself. Receiving that message from Richard that morning, warning of his soon-to-be arrival, had set them both on edge, and she had lost count of how many times she’d heard Ned saying excitedly he had this and that to show his father when he was back. His adoration for his father shone as brightly as the Sun in Splendour of York and, as much as Richard preferred to be discrete with his affections in public – and as much as she knew he loved and was proud of his other children, Johnny and Kathy – it was plainly there for everyone to see that he clearly adored his little Edward back.

Just the thought of them together, the two men of her life, made her heart want to burst with joy.

“I do hope your father has the sense not to be travelling in this dark,” she commented, bending down onto the back of her heels beside the boy, her gown pooling around her, and looking out into the night herself. Actually Richard had a reputation for pushing his men when he wanted, a craft he had perfectly learnt from his brother; nor, if she was honest, was he new to shenanigans such as this. She still blushed remembering the searing kiss he’d effectively killed all her protests with the last time he’d pulled a late arrival on her, after one of his expeditions on the Scottish border…and what had come after that.

“But he _promised_ he would be home in no time,” Ned insisted, pouting. “I can’t go to bed now, Mama. What if he arrives when I’m sleeping?”

“And what if he arrives and you can’t greet him because you’re in bed with that horrible fever again?” she countered reasonably, and patted him affectionately on the little arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

Her son regarded her dubiously for a moment; and then he seemed to be hit by a thought, and he looked at her, as defiant as a six-year-old could muster. “You can’t make me. Uncle Edward the King made me an Earl now, and…”

“…and your mother is a Duchess; so, technically, she can still order you around, little lord,” Anne laughed, falsely outraged. “I also believe she has some most persuasive methods at her disposal…”

Without warning, she grabbed the child’s tiny waist and started tickling him mercilessly, until they were both messy laughing shapes on the stony ground.

“No!...Mama!...That’s not fair fighting!” Ned spluttered between laughs.

“You men can fight with swords; we women have to find our own weapons,” Anne said mysteriously, as she finally released him. Her dress was by now completely crumpled, and her braid probably a disaster, too, but it was all worth the bright beam on her son’s face. _This is what happiness is,_ she thought.

“Does that mean you all cheat?” he asked candidly.

“No, just that we be clever, you little cheeky thing” she chuckled, tapping him on the tip of his nose. “Come now, to bed and that’s final, little man.”

Ned finally surrendered and let himself be dragged away with one last small huff, and Anne smiled knowingly as she saw it turning into a badly concealed yawn. Despite his best intentions, he was asleep almost as soon as his dark head hit the soft feathery pillow, and she found herself staring contemplatively at him, soothingly stroking his thick hair as she lulled her child to a deeper slumber.

He looked so peaceful while sleeping, she mused, again just like his father. Her smile widened at the memory of endless nights fighting tiredness in Richard’s arms just so she could watch him sleep, dark strands of curls plastered all over his forehead and his worry lines, carved deeper and deeper into his skin each passing year, softened into an expression of easy contentment that had only recently started to grace his handsome features by daylight again – having disappeared altogether for months in that year past, as he had been forced to watch one of his brothers destroy the other. Thinking of George’s downfall was always dangerous for them both, for it reopened old scars and some still healing wounds – to Anne, it always reminded her of her own loss, of the big void her sister had left into her life; of how much she would have wanted Isabel to be a part of her present happiness, as she had been an irreplaceable part of her for most of their lives.

She watched her precious little Ned now, and wished so desperately she could give him a brother or sister he could share the same affection with. After her last, painful miscarriage, Richard had told her that he would rather have her well and safe more than anything else, that they were still so young and she shouldn’t worry so. However, she wondered now and then if there was something failing inside her, and prayed fervently to the Almighty that He would not make it so, while almost immediately scolding herself for the thought – for He had already granted her most of the things she had wished for; she sometimes still marvelled at how, after all that had happened, she could possibly be who she was now, Richard’s Duchess and Lady of the North.

Of one thing she was sure: if she ever had another boy, the last name she would ever give him would be that of her ill-fated brother-in-law. Having an Edward and a George as siblings seemed to be a very bad omen these days.

“I would think you're much better at putting our son to bed than all his nurses together, my love.”

She had been so deep in thought that the familiar voice from behind her almost made her jump on Ned’s bed; and her senses seemed to all rush back to her just then, because she was suddenly aware of sounds of horses and dismounting men she had completely missed coming from the courtyard below, filling the nightly castle with their chattering.

She spun around, disbelieving, and Richard was leaning against the doorframe, maybe had been for some time, grinning at her.

“Richard!” she cried in happy surprise, as softly as she could as not to undermine her efforts with Ned. She picked up her skirts and ran to him, and in a moment she was in his arms, which were still heavily-clothed against the cold.

“When did you arrive? How-”

Before she knew it, he had silenced her with a hungry kiss, stolen all her breath from her lungs, his fingertips cool on her face from the evening chill.

“Will you…will you stop shutting me up with your kisses? I was talking to you,” she stuttered when he finally released her, feigning indignation.

“You never seem to mind much, love,” Richard laughed, his hand still on her face, eyes shining as he seemed to drink her in. “I’ve arrived just now.”

“Late-riding again, Richard? Your men must hate you by now,” Anne reprimanded gently, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“I can go and come back tomorrow, if you like?” he teased, but she was quick to grab his doublet firmly in her hands.

“Don’t you dare.” She raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed him again, her fingers tangling in his hair; still dazed, after all those years, by the feel of his sudden closeness after weeks of separation.

“God, Anne, I’ve missed you” he murmured breathlessly against her lips. “I could not and would not wait for another day apart from my family.”

 _Family,_ the word echoed sweetly through Anne’s mind; it just felt so incredibly _right_ , as she watched him walk closer to Ned’s curled form, bend down to kiss him lightly on his tiny forehead.

“I had thought we could afford better bed covers than this old rag?” she heard him chuckle softly, and then noticed him fingering the faded, slightly frayed golden warp of Ned’s blanket, the very same old blanket that spoke of so many memories to them and that as a child she would’ve never, even in her wildest dreams, imagined to be able to wrap around her son’s sleeping frame.

“Since he discovered it was yours, he would not sleep without it,” she whispered, her voice almost trembling with the sudden tenderness threatening to engulf her. “And I don’t mind. This way, it’s like…”

She hesitated briefly, fearing he would find the thought silly. “It’s like a part of you is with him even when you be away.”

Richard turned his head to look at her at that, and all her concerns dissipated instantly at the touched expression on his face. He raised one hand to her cheek in a soft caress, and she angled her face slightly to kiss his outstretched palm lovingly.

No other words were needed between them. Later, their hands held like those of youngsters at their first crush as they walked into their rooms and, as the door closed behind them, were lost all over each other, their every move filled with raw longing, Richard’s kisses growing more and more demanding and crumpling every little resolve Anne could have had of asking him about his venture first.

“Francis can tell you all about it,” was his only answer when she did – she hadn’t the slightest idea of how – manage to question him between kisses. “He has always been a far better storyteller than I. And he said he will come ad pay his respects before leaving tomorrow, but not too early…he didn’t want to…ah…disturb us.”

Anne was sure she had to be blushing, but he couldn’t have seen it, anyway, because he was much more enraptured with the soft skin of her neck, trailing kisses all along her jawline and sending tingling shivers down her spine. Answering him was the most difficult task ever.

“And why would he think he would… _disturb_ us?”

“Hmm, no idea,” Richard raised his head from her neck and grinned mischievously. “But I was thinking maybe we could use that time to try giving Ned some company to share that horrible old blanket with…”

She couldn't hide the even deeper redness on her face from him this time but, as he claimed her mouth again, Anne knew that didn't matter anymore in the slightest, for all rational thought was lost to her; just as she knew that they, instead, would have very little need of any kind of covers that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter could probably be "Gloucester fluff intensifies", lol.  
> Didn't actually mean to include so much of little bb Ned at first, but I adore him to pieces too and that part sort of wrote itself. I wouldn't dare measuring myself with Chelle's beautiful Richard/Ned interactions - she wins every adorableness award for those! - and so I wrote a scene for him and Anne. Hope you like it, and store up all the fluff with me, because the next part is likely to be pain, pain, and pain.
> 
> (I won't probably have the courage to leave the fic there, so I indicated 6 chapters to be the total number, but I'm not sure what route to take yet.)


End file.
